Love is as cold as dishwater
by Saturnine Spiders
Summary: Blaise forgot to wash the dishes, again.


**Title:** Love is as cold as dishwater

 **Prompt:** Write about a pairing you've never written before.

 **A/N:** So, I heard some Wasp's think I can't write fast. Well, while I didn't catch the snitch (kudos to Luuna Lovegood), I certainly got this up quickly.

 **Word Count:** 1,217

* * *

 _ **February 11, 2018**_

Ginny scoured the sink, staring down at the simple silver band with a lavender crescent jewel embedded within the element. It was her wedding ring that was hand-crafted by Blaise's new stepfather, simple but attractive. Blaise's counterpart to hers rests on his bedside dresser, raw to the leaky ceilings. They have been married for six years, and the band has yet to leave the bedside for two years.

"Ginny?" Blaise's voice was hoarse and guttural, and Ginny had to turn off the fan in the scullery to better apprehend what he was saying. He propped himself against the door frame, moments later, spectacles crusted in a thin layer of soot with his work attire unbuttoned. "Lamb?"

Securing the sopping wet rag in place, she turned to him with an apathetic smile, "yes?"

He returned the smile, his sincere, "how was your day?"

"It was just lovely," came her drab response, "seeing as you took my keys so I was forced to reschedule my doctor appointment _and_ you didn't clean the dishes."

Blaise's smile faltered, a culpable blush crawling out from under his shirt's collar. "Tom called me in early today, said something about Draco not coming in today. But, hey, look. I just thought I could do the dishes the next day."

"Do the dishes the next day?" She said incredulously. "When the grim is hardened and plates piled, _you_?"

Ginny snorted in derision, knowing her lethargic husband would build on the excuse until the plates grazed the ceiling or the fetor made him chunder his stomach's content. "Sure you did."

"When you first did not complete them, six weeks ago, I did not mind. You had been deeply engrossed in your work, you were stressed, and I respected your diligence. But, six weeks, Blaise? Your mother had better been dancing with Merlin himself because this long for work is too long." Ginny pursed her lips, her crepuscular silver eyes glaring down at the soles of his mire caked shoes.

Blaise reached forward, trailing a thumb along the ridges of her jaw in an attempt to pacify her. Ginny was not easily angered, but that did it. "And you have the gall the touch me as if this is a fruitless argument. This is about more than the plates; this is about you!"

He retracted his hand, "what about me?"

But he knew exactly what. He was detached, he was drinking rotgut at three in the morning in a champagne glass, he was laboring away until his skin tasted of oil, he wasn't affectionate, he wasn't in bed with his wife, and his wedding ring rusted an unsightly bronze. His own co-workers don't even know he had a wife. "Nevermind," he sighed, "that was a stupid question."

Ginny leered and stalked into the kitchen, reaching for a flask of liquid amber, before passing him a chalice. The liquor was crude, she knew, resting her head against the ligneous walls of their house. It was emetic, she wanted to vomit, but she simply downed her glass and motioned for a second. This wasn't normal. The bellicose attitudes, the ale lolling across their tongues, the guilty conscience. It was madness. It simply wasn't them.

"Why are we doing this?" Blaise moaned against her neck, having draped his arms over her shoulders, his glass disregarded.

Ginny undulated to the pulsating pattern of his heart, closing her eyes and inhaling the vague scent of petroleum and her perfume. "I don't know, Blaise, I really don't know."

...

 ** _February 12th, 2018_**

It was warm.

The aching in her skull ebbed and flowed like a cold tide, yet weary eyes closed in a grimace. The sheets were damp with sweat, her hair matted to her neck and the body next to her was still. Somber, luminous moonlight pooled over her like a cloak, and she tenderly lifted herself from the tangles of beige sheets.

Blood rushed to her head, and she staggered, sinking back into the mattress. The floor was bitter cold, her feet bare along with the rest of her. A vanity mirror mocked her from across the room, and she stared into it with wine eyes. Her breasts, caked in copper strands, was sullied with mute blotches of crimson. It was then the miasma of stale sex registered within her muddled brain.

Her hands trembled as she grasped her breast within warm palms, kneading the sensitive flesh between her fingers. The dwindling pain throbbed as her nails kissed the bruises, and she let her hands and her gaze fall to her lap. She had to work; she would be late, she had to get dressed and showered and-

It was _warm_.

The bed was warm, and her husband laid next to her with his hand rested on her pillow. He was not in the daybed or slaving away at the factory but in their bed with her beside him. He was as naked as her, dark legs intertwined with the fawn linen sheets, saliva draped over his thin lips. Ginny wanted to envelope herself in the feeling of his callused skin against hers but did not dare to touch him. He would arouse from his light slumber, and then the ardor would be lost. She would be alone, and she did not desire to be alone.

His eyes were like racing horses, limping behind one another in a gallop. He was dreaming, and she mused on what. It could be of her and her licentious tongue or the humid minutes under the sweltering sun, inhaling odious smog. It could be of ichor and carnage, the bloodletting and the painting of watch dials with self-luminous paint. It could be of avaricious, nimble rats that apply tea rose lipstick to their eyelids or of Sir John Falstaff stabbing Hotspur's corpse in the thigh to claim credit for the kill. It could be of everything, or it could be of nothing at all.

 _5:13 AM_

The clock glared an angry red and Ginny reluctantly broke from her reverie; she started work at six, and she did not attend to be behindhand. It was Monday, and she had four arranged meetings with four distinct clients, she would have to go without breakfast.

The shower was bittersweet, warm but it was not her husband's warmth that engulfed her. An ecru contusion on her forearm throbbed then, and she disregarded the swelling with a cursory glance. It could wait. She applied a thin coating of her foundation, dianthus petal extract used as a rouge and beeswax and pink dye mixed in to enrich the fading color. Ginny did not have a taste for makeup, but she knew that to hide her earlier inebriated state she had to do her pores injustice.

Blaise slept as Ginny dressed and as she fastened her slacks she had the impertinence to brush her lips against his for an ephemeral second. It was brief, it was one-sided, but it was enough to make her grin all the way to her car and out the driveway.

Blaise may not love her, Ginny knew but she loved him, and that was good enough for her.


End file.
